Artorian's Archives Omnibus Read online

  Artorian’s Archives Omnibus

  Books 1-3 in a Divine Dungeon Series

  Dennis Vanderkerken

  Dakota Krout

  Copyright © 2020 by Mountaindale Press

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the publisher, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Acknowledgments

  From Dennis:

  There are many people who have made this book possible. First is Dakota himself, for without whom this entire series would never have come about. In addition to letting me write in his universe, he has taken it upon himself to edit and keep straight all the madness for which I am responsible, with resulting hilarity therein.

  A thank you to my late grandfather, after whom a significant chunk of Artorian’s personality is indebted. He was a man of mighty strides, and is missed dearly.

  A special thank you to my parents, for being ever supportive in my odd endeavors, Mountaindale Press for being a fantastic publisher, Jess for keeping us all on task, and all the fans of Artorian’s Archives, Divine Dungeon, and Completionist Chronicles who are responsible for the popularity for this to come to pass. May your affinity channels be strong, and plentiful!

  Last of all, thank you. Thank you for picking this up and giving it a read. These three books are the start of a multi-book series, and I dearly hope you will enjoy them as the story keeps progressing. Artorian’s Archives may start before Divine Dungeon, but don’t worry! It’s going all the way past the end of Completionist Chronicles! So if you liked this, keep an eye out for more things from Mountaindale Press!

  Newsletter

  Don’t miss out on future releases! Sign up for the Mountaindale Press newsletter to stay up to date. And as always, thank you for your support! You are the reason we’re able to bring these stories to life.

  Contents

  I. Axiom

  II. Alumni

  III. Annex

  Afterword

  About Dennis Vanderkerken

  About Dakota Krout

  About Mountaindale Press

  Mountaindale Press Titles

  Appendix

  Axiom

  Artorian’s Archives Book 1

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Epilogue

  Prologue

  “Sir!”

  A man in his early thirties looked up from the map he and a few others were pouring over and could instantly see that the messenger had serious and grievous news to give him. “What in the abyss is going on out there? Report!"

  “Sir, the front line has fallen, the main Commander has been slain! There was… there is a Mage out there!"

  Various sounds of consternation filled the tent, and a few people even ran to double-check the report. “Why in the world would there be a Mage here? There aren’t even the most basic of cultivators in this fight! How could they afford a–”

  “From what I understand, the Mage is killing indiscriminately. Sir! I don’t know what to tell you. All I know is that command either falls to you or…

  “Don't tell me someone is bringing him this same message! As much as I don’t want to be in charge, there is no way…!"

  Even as he finished his statement, a powerful voice rumbled over the battlefield, “Charge!”

  The bloodlust coming from the self-entitled voice was so thick that the warriors could almost taste it, and this group was right at the rear of the battle. “We’ve won, you backwater cretins! Turn and fight! Their line is broken! I said charge!”

  The sub-commander barreled out of his tent and into the scorching sunlight that was the Soccoro Desert. Why there was a battle happening in this blasted wasteland, he had no idea. He simply followed orders and attempted to do right by his people… unlike his counterpart, who was only in the military for glory. Taking a deep breath, the sub-commander bellowed an order to countermand the words that had shaken the sand out of his tent. “Retreat! Blast that order. There is a Mage waiting out there! Full retreat!”

  Sand and dust were present at the best of times in this wasteland, but the density and quantity today were on a different level. A sound reached his ears, a high-pitched *piiiiii… boom*. With that detonation, a massive amount of sand, soot, and various debris joined what was already in the air, choking the sub-commander in an instant. The sun was blotted out, and the world descended into a confusing and hazy blur.

  “Traitor!” The snarl thundered across the burning sand and searing soot, burning deeper into the sub-commander than the sun ever had in this place. “Ignore him! For glory! For honor! For your King! I said charge!”

  Next to the command tent, the sub-commander’s eyes widened as a chance breeze pushed aside the storm of sand and soot and the battlefield was revealed to him. Death, flame, and destruction. Every man who entered the open space of the battlefield was starting alight and was burned into a pile of ashes in an instant. Even those who were not moving forward…

  *Boom*.

  A roiling wave of heat struck the sub-commander square in the back, and the taste of sand filled his mouth as he was shoved down into the ground by the invisible shockwave. His skin was shredded as the dirt, newly-made glass, and flaming splinters cut hundreds of lines through his armor. He stifled a groan and pushed himself up, his aching knee pulled to his chest as the toes of his boot sunk into brittle, half-glassed sand. A glance behind him showed that only a fireball remained of the command tent, and the lack of screams made his heart sink. Those were… his… ten years on the campaign trail; those were his brothers in arms! The only family he had!

  He steeled himself; he would need to grieve later. If there was a later. For now, he needed to save as many as he could. Their loss was clear; the chances of victory were nonexistent. It was time to retreat, or they would suffer a devastating rout and be killed to the last man. There was no victory to be found here—not now, not after that monster, that cultivator, the one-man army arrived.

  “Disengage! Disen-*hack*-gage!” His words some
how sounded clearly across the field, and he knew he would be obeyed by most. There was power in being there for the people that relied on you, and he knew that his opposite was not as beloved as he was. The people… they would run. Hopefully, some would even survive.

  “Don’t listen to him!” The next words to reach his ringing ears were accusatory. “I will chase you down, you traitor! I will chase you all down if it’s the last thing I–”

  A whistle of metal pierced the space where the words were forming, and the sentence abruptly ended with a very fleshy *hyuk*. It would have been a notable detail had a pillar of flame not engulfed the position in a cascading waterfall of fire and destruction. Loss. Total loss.

  The newly minted Commander bellowed, “Get back to the bunkers!”

  A cold feeling of dread permeated his insides, particularly his stomach when he realized… by giving an order, he had made himself a prime target. The Commander, the other sub-commander… this Mage was targeting command structure before all else. Panic fueled the muscles in his legs as he broke into a ‘your-life-is-over’ run through the billowing walls of hot sand. The cries and wails of the numerous injured littered the surroundings, the troops around him invisible in the artificial maelstrom of glowing orange and matte black. He had made the correct decision.

  *Boom*.

  A high pitched *piiiiii* sound filled his now-damaged ears, an infuriatingly sharp tone. It wasn’t much, but it was all the sensory information available. Wait… had it gotten even hotter? Odd how that seemed so impossible at the edge of the scorching Socorro Desert. The panic of his current reality took grip once more, and his determined fingertips clenched into his palm, grasping the soil that he had been thrown into.

  To his surprise, the flat rock he gripped was solid and cool. Without being able to actually see, there was still enough difference to inform him that he was now in the shade. He had gotten into the bunkers!

  Hope blossomed as the poor excuse for a Commander forced himself to his feet. He took a few steps, then found himself falling into a deep hole that someone must have been using as a sleeping or cool-down area. As he settled on the dirt several feet below the bunker and tried to regain his breath, he realized that his dry throat was making each inhalation excruciatingly painful.

  As soon as he could manage, there was no hesitation in snatching the waterskin—now considerably singed—from his belt. His shredded leather belt didn’t survive this pull, falling to tatters as he pulled open the container and took a long pull. He did his best to squint his eyes open, at least enough to rinse out some of the caked-on foulness.

  Though it did little to help the pain, it was still sufficient to restore a semblance of visibility. A jarring cry echoed down to him, so he pulled himself up to peek over the edge of the hole. Hope filled him for a moment as a duo of familiar figures burst into the underground space… but they were not the only things coming through the opening. Fire, prefaced by a sound like thunder heralding a storm, flooded into the space after them.

  The air seemed to coil and writhe, producing a horrifying orange glow. The air became a swirl of ebon particles that danced in the air, and the only sound was the crackle of sand becoming glass in the sudden torrential heat. The sight of his men… his family… being swallowed by the flames was the last he remembered. He couldn't avoid the hail of rocks that erupted from the ground and shattered against the opposing wall, ricocheting straight for his head.

  Darkness took him.

  Chapter One

  *Thunk*. The old warrior woke from a deep sleep with a pained jerk, his latent nightmares still sending the word ‘traitor’ ringing through his skull. His forehead stung as his aged body awoke to the aching impact of a shelled nut. Right on a sore spot near the temple. It had healed over… oh, decades ago by this point.

  *Plink*.

  The communal gasp of several youngsters was the first sign of what was likely going to be a taxing day. A child’s voice whispered frantically, “You hit him!”

  Half-muffled replies from another tiny voice snapped in panic, “I didn’t mean to!”

  The first voice remained frantic. “You hit the Elder! You hit the El– *mlmm*!”

  Any following words were muffled by the tight grasp of multiple hands, and a communal *shhh* hissed from several sources. The scuffle of feet moved with the unskilled stealth of a weighed-down pack mule as the small gathering of children tried to escape unnoticed. Fat chance of that happening.

  Dry wood croaked like a grumpy frog as the Elder struggled to get off his resting place. One leg clambered over the edge of the bed, and a moment later, the other followed. A deep breath was held before the *hmmmpf* of effort pushed the aged wreck up and off the padded sheet. Trembling hands fell to his sides after the old man was finally upright—at least as upright as an almost fifty-year-old who spent most of his time horizontal and in bed could be.

  Small crunches rippled and popped underfoot with every step he took. It appeared he’d wandered into… a mess of small shells. He pondered the unnatural addition to his floor, uncertain what to make of the situation. “Hmm. Curious.”

  There was a slight stagger as a shell cut into his foot, but a few steps later, he was leaning on the window hole in the wall. This particular hole was ‘mysteriously’ missing the thin cloth that usually gave his home a touch of privacy. The Elder stuck his bald head through the window and squinted to find the missing cloth. Sure enough, it was floppily attached to the top of the frame and detached from the other three supports. The cover aimlessly flapped in the eternally soft breeze, the wind making his waist-long beard follow suit.

  Barely a white puff floated overhead, the sky was its usual gentle blue. The beautiful sky was a common sight in this corner of the world thanks to a low annual rainfall. He realized right then that he must have overslept, as the sun was past its midpoint. Then again, as a member of the community not needing to perform any task concerning physical labor, he didn’t give it a second thought. Nobody else did either.

  As usual, it was a warm day—a pleasant one, even, as the cooling breeze took the weight and excess warmth right off his shoulders. A thumb and forefinger brushed along his upper lip, smoothing out a snow-white mustache that curved out past the sides of his mouth before sharply angling downwards. It was nearly a fourth the length of his equally colorless beard, and it served to distract from his wrinkled features, scars, and large, prominent nose.

  “*Eeeeee*!”

  A screech from the children allowed him to easily pinpoint where they’d scampered off to hide. When the Elder turned his still-waking gaze to meet them, they froze like wide-eyed rabbits before the alarmed pack sucked in a simultaneous breath… and scattered. Some dove behind shrubs, while others thought that thin, willowy trees half their width would conceal them fully. The last child mostly just dawdled in place—about to move left, then about to move right, then changing his mind like he was about to move left again. Distress was drawn on his face like a finely carved woodwork.

  “Sproutling.” The Elder’s voice was slow, full of depth, and held a parent's questioning tone. The inflection at the end of the word made the young child freeze. While the Elder’s words had been forceful, his voice still possessed all the warmth one would expect of a doting grandfather. The tattered-robe-clad child panic-smiled, showing a mostly full row of teeth. His eyes darted around looking for help… only to see that the others had thrown him into the river and had left him to drown. They peeked out from their respective hiding places, motioning for him to stay quiet about their ‘hidden’ selves.

  With no way out, the child swallowed loudly and attempted his best—completely innocent—response, “Y-yes, Elder?”

  The Elder held a tense silence as he leaned his sharp-featured face forward out of the window further, beckoning the young child closer with a digit. Sharp eye contact was firmly maintained along with the ‘come here’ tug of the index finger. With much chagrin and a pinch of defeat, the young lad approached the window. Hidden ch
ildren were watching with rapt attention, looking for a chance to flee while their ‘caught’ member dragged his feet.

  While the sproutlings sought escape, the Elder had a cursory glance at the village. His small lodging was nestled near the center of the village, given that the ‘center’ was measured by proximity to both the bonfire ring and their haphazard attempts at an apple orchard. The lasting silence allowed quick deduction that the majority of adults in the village were out working the salt flats.

  There was no loud whining in the direction of the apiary, so the caretakers were not currently working with the honeybees. The distinct lack of sizzling and iron striking bronze also added to the strong indication that young children—sprouts, or sproutlings in this village—were entirely unsupervised.

  He’d actually have to get up today, and his inner lethargy bemoaned the very notion that such effort was going to be necessary. With a sigh and forced determination to get going with his day, he reached out with his thin, trembling hand and patted the sproutling’s head after he’d approached. While the grandfather’s voice was tired, it wasn’t the kind of tired that came from freshly waking up and coping. It was the kind of slow, creeping drain that stuck with you at all times, regardless of what you did to try and work through it. His question was tender and soft. “Were you all trying to see who could get shells into an old, snoring mouth… so I would choke, wake up, and be able to tell my stories sooner?”